La Danse des Masques

7/29/2019 La Danse des Masques

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La Danse des Masques

A CreW Compilation: S.Y. 2010-2011

Written by: Flora Anne R. Palabrica



La Danse des Masques

All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits

and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts.

Exit Stage Left. Enter Stage Right. In a flurry of skirts and suits, the actors shift places and

swap faces behind the crimson curtains. Insults are traded and barbs exchanged as the hustle

and bustle reaches its peak, unbeknownst to the audience sitting only fifteen feet away. Places

everyone. Act 2 is about to begin.

And when the curtains have fallen and the audience has risen from their seats, the

actors retreat to their rooms and take their costumes off. They scrub the make-up from their

faces and shake off the remaining glitter from their hands. But as they leave the theatre, they

put on a different mask altogether.

We all have our secrets and we all wear a disguise. Whether it’s putting on a smile

instead of a frown or laughing instead of crying, it cannot be denied that our true faces are

often hidden behind numerous facades. And once all the trappings we equip ourselves with are

stripped away, what lies at the core of our humanity except our inherent vulnerability?

So smile, the play is beginning once more.



Fictionfor when the darkest depths of our imagination

unabashedly take flight



Judas Iscariot

for when has there ever only been one side to any tale?

I am Judas, son to a murdered father and a missing mother, brother to a desecrated

sister. I called myself a loyal servant of the faith until my family started bearing the brunt of my

loyalty. My town of Kerioth was a quiet one, unfettered by the games and intrigue of the bigger

cities. We lived by the rules, bowing down to the chief priests whenever they come to call. But

when I became an apostle, worshippers flocked to our village, as desperate to see Christ’s

beloved followers as they are to see Christ himself. They’d talk of the coming of the Messiah in

the village square where elders reign supreme. They’d worship Christ and beg for His

benediction, all the while refusing to give of ferings to the elders’ temples. Riots abounded and

families were torn asunder. Faith. Instead of bringing people together, the only thing it’s done

is tear us apart.

Early this morn, the high priests had our village burned to the ground, right after having

their way with everyone in it. Kerioth is no more. The land of my dreams and of my childhood is

naught but ash and rubble now. I should have listened to Herod. He had a plan, the unification

of all under his rule, wherein we’ll all fight the same fights and worship the same gods. I may no

longer believe in the idols and rituals of old, but their underlying meaning still rings true. A way

to contact the Almighty, is that not what it’s all about? Why must the means matter? Enough! I

can take no more of the carnage and the torture, of the punishment of those whose only sin is

their search for truth. The priests have made an offer, and perhaps I shall accept. Anything to

make this war end. Peace or eternal salvation? I must decide.



Carmine

The scent of hot wax and burning feathers fill the room, emanating from the corner

where a weathered old man toils over his next creation. A boy, barely fourteen, huddles near

the spitting fire; watching his father with bated breath. And although the scene is a familiar

one, his greedy eyes never once stray from the bent figure. How many times before had he

seen his father at work, slaving over a new invention? And for how long has he had to watch his

father waste away into a shell of fevered ideas and worthless flights of fancy? His father would

blather on about the way things used to be, talking of the palaces they visited and the upper

echelons of society they considered friends. Yet he has to wonder, where are they now? Don’t

all friends and fabled castles in the air crumble the moment the dark clouds of misfortune settle

into place? And all the feasting and the merry seem but dreams meant to torture souls that

have had and lost. He wonders sometimes, if he has grown as demented as his father. If the

sounds resonating through the space are the echoes of his victims’ sobs or merely the steady

drip of water making abstract patterns on the walls.

Sweat drips down his back, staining his shift with yet another layer of grime, hands

burnt by wax and cut by tools too old and rusty to ordinarily be used. He whispers to himself as

he works, his fervent mumbles filling the silence.

A law-abiding citizen, that’s what I was, yes. Paid my taxes, made my offerings. Raised

by my parents right, they can’t say I wasn’t. Not my fault I’m smarter than all the rest. Too

smart, that’s what they said. Too smart. They’re all just too stupid. They told me to be a

politician, preserve the family lineage, grease palms and spout lies just like everyone else. I told

them I was going to be an inventor and they said I’d never make it. But I proved them all wrong.

My family, they don’t like being proven wrong. Took away my home and took away my work,



did you? But I’ll have the last laugh, Minos. The jewel of Crete belongs to me now. It really

wasn’t wise of you to anger your own brother.

Cackling, he squats down and reaches into his burlap sack, nimble fingers easily finding

the hole in the lining. He carefully slides the amulet out, nestling it in his palm as its crimson

shades catch the feeble light. Even in shadow, it pulsed with fire, with the lifeblood of a city.

Crete, surrounded by strong walls that do nothing but shield the weakness of the city,

filled with complex buildings commissioned by men to compensate for their simple minds. It is

falling apart and I have the only thing keeping it together. The jewel of Crete. They must be

going mad looking for the culprits, wondering who could have been smart enough to get into

the tomb. I wonder what they’d do if they found out that I have it right now, cradled in the palm

of my hands.

Looking at the man crouched down, heaving with silent laughter, the boy couldn’t help

but curl his lip in disgust.

We weren’t always like this; we’ve never sunk this low. He reminds me o f the children I

used to humiliate. They’d stoop at my feet, sobbing for mercy. They were weak and I despise

weakness. I used to be the strongest and no one could touch me. No one would dare. But not

anymore. They saw us fall; everyone saw us vulnerable. We were relegated to rubble, street

trash no longer fit to grace the citizens of Crete with our presence. They laughed at us; I could

hear them snickering, smirking behind their fans. They thought us powerless. Well tell me, Crete,

who has the power now? Your jewel is in our hands and I live to see it destroyed as the gods

wreak vengeance on your heads.

He stood up and sauntered towards his father, eager to see the new invention. Perhaps

it was a weapon or a new kind of poison to release on Crete.



On the table were two pairs of wings, glistening with opaline lustre. Fluttering in the

slight breeze, they seemed almost impatient to explore the sky. Yet their beauty was lost to the

youth whose dark dreams blood and carnage seemed doomed to be left unsatisfied.

“What is this, Father?” he demanded as he brought his hand crashing down, barely

missing the shining wings.

“Careful!” his father roared, “Do you realize what you almost destroyed? ”

“Bits of fluff? Feathers held together by hot wax, ready to fa ll apart? What I don’t see,

Father, is a way for us to get back at Crete for what they’ve done to us. I must admit though, it

is quite beautiful. I was merely shocked. I never thought you’d lower yourself by turning into a

craftsman.”

“You insult me with your sarcasm, Icarus! And here I thought you so keen on gaining

vengeance.”

“Vengeance? Vengeance? Tell me, Father, how will we regain our honor with a pair of

wings? Will we fly above Crete and thumb our noses at them? ”

“Enough! You have run wild for too long and I regret not ruling you with a firmer hand.

But time is of the essence and you must understand now. The jewel of Crete is not just any

stone. It is an amulet, one of the strongest ever created, the only thing keeping Crete together

and afloat. So why don’t you tell me, son , what better vengeance is there than to destroy their

jewel, thus destroying their entire city? ”

A grin slowly spreads across Icarus’ face as he contemplates his father’s plan. It was

wonderful. It was perfect. Jubilant, they strapped themselves in, ready for flight. And they took-

off, soaring effortlessly into the sky, with the jewel glinting in Icarus’ hand.



***

They saw a star that day, right before the ground collapsed beneath their feet. It was

said that it twinkled a bit too close to the sun. It flew in a graceful arc before exploding when it

came too close to the bright ball of flame. Then the ground gave way and the winds roared with

a fury borne in torrents of rain and jagged slashes of lightning. It was as if the gods themselves

wished death on Crete.

Now, they merely say that a foolish youth flew too close to the sun. And there was

never any mention of the afternoon star or the missing jewel of Crete.



Gemini

I’ve been around you for years now, peeking at you through windows and stealing

glimpses of your face, but you’ve never really taken the time to look my way. Even though

you’re boyish and dishevelled, with no care for anything other than your friends, I’ve never

stopped trying to get your attention. It’s just the way you smile I guess, every day, every hour,

every time you catch me looking at you.

Why won’t you pay me more attention? Let your gaze linger a little longer? It’s not like I

haven’t been in plain sight all this time, shadowing you whenever you enter a room, hoping the

sunlight catches me just right so your eyes will find me whenever you turn around to look.

If you only knew how long I’ve been watching you.

You paused long enough today. If only to ask if the ink stain on your shirt was

noticeable. I couldn’t help it, all those years of just watching you, begging to be noticed, I

pointed out more than you wanted to know.

Could you forgive me? I just wanted you to stay a bit longer.

It may have been too much for the first time. I hope I didn’t blow it with you. I could feel

your indifference as you walked away. It was barely a few seconds, too quick to even faze your

smile. But I’ll be watching, always watching.

You glance back, and damn, you catch me looking again.

Like every other time before.

We ran into each other today. I could swear there was something different about you.

Maybe it’s just me but, is that recognition in your eyes? Maybe you remember me, remember



all the time we’ve spent together. As kids, we used to make faces at each other in the bus, and I

wonder, what changed?

I think I freaked you out the last time we met; I was a bit excited. It’s not every day that

the girl who’s never paid attention suddenly stops to take notice.

I’d like to think you were looking for me. Maybe today, today you really were.

You looked like you wanted to know for sure. Like you were searching for something

you saw before but wasn’t quite sure was there. I wanted to show you again. Show you

everything I am, everything you’ve never taken the time to notice. But you looked away as soon

as our eyes met.

Did you like what you saw? I wonder if you feel it too, see what I’ve wanted to show you

all along.

I know you. I’ve always known you!

But somehow I doubt you’d hear me. And so I repeat it softl y, again and again, hoping

this time I won’t be ignored, like all the other countless times before. Believe in me. You linger

for a bit longer, sneaking glances as you walk away.

Maybe, maybe this time I got through to you. Maybe now you’ll care.

It’s all I’ve ever wanted, you know, more time spent with you. And lately you’ve been

giving it to me. You’d invite your friends over from school and we’d all be in your room,

spending the night reading magazines, watching TV shows and comparing ourselves to movie

stars. They’d always flatter you, telling you that you look like a celebrity.

But then you’d take me somewhere private and ask me what I thought. And I always

thought otherwise. Does it make you feel better? Me confirming what you already know. It



comforts you doesn’t it? The thought that there will always be that one person with whom

you’ll see eye to eye.

But it worried me, that maybe I was too harsh on you, pointing out everything right

away. Breaking your childish dreams of glitz and glamour like the proverbial bull in a china shop.

But you did ask for my opinion and I gave it. Maybe I should have held back a little, waited a bit

longer. But you know I don’t lie or sugar-coat. I’m not that kind of friend. I do remember it’s

what you like best about me.

What you see is what you get. That’s what I’ve always believed.

I remember when you came down to breakfast the other day, and everybody said your

hair looked diff erent since you’ve started fixing it. Since you started taking my advice. It felt

good didn’t it? Isn’t it nice being called pretty, having people pay attention to you? See what

happens when you listen to me? People notice you. They admire you. They look at you. And

maybe now they see you as more than the little girl you used to be. It’s high tim e you started

growing up, don’t you think?

And all I’ve ever wanted to do was help.

I gave you my thoughts. I tried to be nice, I really did. Your nose is a bit too long for

conventional standards and your eyes too far apart. But don’t worry, you can cheat that. And so

what if you could lose a few pounds? Tell me, is anyone truly happy about their weight?

I wanted to give you a pat on the back, but right then, I didn’t feel like I could reach you.

You glanced at me before walking away. I should have given you a reassuring smile, but then

again, how could I? It’s not like you were wearing one either. Eye to eye. Did I make you sad?

No one else needs to know. Together we can make what everyone else says true.

***



Did you ever imagine I’d be this big an influence on you? Sleep seems such a trivial thing

whenever I spend the night. I just love the games we play, where we take each other apart and

point out all the little ways we could be better. It keeps you up doesn’t it? It’s a big task,

mentally cataloguing it all. Even more so, since the list seems never-ending. Self-Development,

we call it.

But it flatters me, how I’m the first and last thing on your mind before you fall asleep.

And I do hate it when you fall asleep when it means less time spent with me. So we fight sleep

together, struggling to stay awake. But our battles leave their own marks on your face as the

rings around your eyes grow darker every day. The night intoxicates us, drugging us with its

secrets. And doesn’t the darkness make everything so much easier to say? Go on, you know you

can tell me everything.

You might as well, it’s not as if you can hide anything from me.

I stop by to visit you in class. It’s a familiar scene now, you smiling at me from your

window seat, just bursting to tell me about your day. You always have the most entertaining

stories. It’s not like I ever say much. It’s not as if I ever even have to.

You prattle on more than enough to fill in the gaps of our conversations. It’d always be

about a boy. You’d chatter about the way he smiled at you or waved hello as he passed you by.

If you only knew the way he looks at me, sees me in a way he’ll never see you.

I should give you a hug perhaps, maybe a kiss on the cheek for celebration. But then

who would I be fooling? It’s not as if I believe you have a chance with him. So what’s the use in

offering false congratulations? Especially since you don’t deserve a single one of them. He’d

never even look at you twice.

You’re only fooling yourself.



***

I wonder why you keep insisting I spend more time with you indoors. You used to hate

staying inside. You’d drag me around, splashing with me in puddles and walking together

around the pond. I never understood it then, why you brought me along but never really paid

me mind. But you’re making up for it now, keeping me with you in your room. Never leaving my

side.

Your mom asks you why you never invite your friends over these days. But why would

you? You don’t need any of your other friends. You already have me.

We played around with your make-up kit. Is it the first time you’ve taken it out of your

closet since your mom gave it to you for graduation?

I bet it was your consolation prize, for al l the awards you didn’t get.

It was big, filled to the brim with products that haven’t even been opened. Just waiting

for their chance to work wonders on your face. I knew it was your first time, even as you tried

to pretend otherwise. I couldn’t miss the way your hands trembled when you picked up the

gloss, the way you deliberated over the colours, chose the wrong brushes.

Careful, you don’t want to end up looking worse than you already do.

The lipstick slashes a bright crimson line on your sallow face, hiding chapped lips worn

from your constant worrying. Foundation masks the bags under your eyes, evidence of the late

night games you play with me. Your hand was unsteady as you apply a bit of blush to cover the

cheeks you’ve been sucking in to try and make your face look thinner than it really is. Perhaps a

bit more bronzer? Why don’t we try to fake the vibrancy you once had? The glow that took me

forever to help you fade.

You write your name on my face, thinking yourself clever, shading in my eyes with

palettes of black and green.



Do you think yourself beautiful now? With all that make-up on your face? And it is an

improvement, I’ll give you that. But what about that zit popping up on your chin, or the size of

your eyes, or your uneven ears? I’m afraid no amount of make-up can help that. I don’t mean to

nitpick, but who’s going to point them out if not me? And I’m sure there are people who call

you pretty. I just tell you everything they don’t have the courage to say out loud. I’ve seen them

looking at you, telling you you’re beautiful to your face, then turning around and laughing

behind your back. I’m the only one that tells you the truth

Does that make me your best friend?

But, oh, now the mascara’s running down your cheeks. What a waste.

I was with you in the department store, in that little room stocked with gowns and

pretence. The bright light throwing your features into stark relief, highlighting every detail. Has

your hair always been that limp, your figure that lumpy? There were things in that light, that

even I had never noticed before.

The jewelled tones of the dresses mocked the pallid colour of your skin. You looked like

a pigeon dressed as a peacock and the effect was so comical it put tears in our eyes. I’m just not

sure if we were crying for the same reason because you ripped the dress off far before the joke

was worn with me.

You wake me up at midnight, asking me, needing me to whisper to you the truth. And I

tell you vividly, making sure it’ll echo throughout your day, drowning out eve ryone that tells

you lies you shouldn’t believe. They tell you, you’re beautiful .



***

I don’t think it’s a coincidence, us always meeting in the bathroom after lunch, the flush

of the toilet punctuating our conversations. You’re finally doing something about your weight.

Have I ever told you how proud it’s made me feel? Let me encourage you. Let me motivate.

Just a little more, honey, just a little more. You really shouldn’t have had that last

spoonful of rice. But well, it doesn’t matter now.

You wrap your hands around your waist every time. Looking at me for advice.

Just a little more and they’ll meet. Just a bit more because someday you’ll be perfect.

But not right now.

I forget who between us added the last part.

You bruise your lips as you add more gloss to them; trying to form a satisfied smirk

instead of the frustrated line you’re always greeting me with. It comes out more of a grimace

than anything else.

It’s hard to believe you even used to smile.

It’s always the same, you complaining to me about being hungry all the time. But I don’t

know what you expect me to do. Aren’t you the one with the powder in your drawer?

Are you hungry, dear? It doesn’t matter if you are. Just sit there and snort your coke,

and it’ll all go away. Fat people don’t deserve to be beautiful . We agreed on that.



Yes, do another line, just for me.

You seem excited tonight; with your sparkling eyes that hold promise rather than the

darkness shrouding them all the other nights before. You flutter around the room, putting on

your gown and strapping on your shoes. You smooth the fabric over your frail body, desperately

sucking your stomach in.

It still surprises me, the way you seem to hear what I’m thinking.

You pin flowers in your hair and tie ribbons around your wrists. Spinning round in circles

and laughing for the first time in months, you eagerly wheel around to face me.

Are you sure about that make-up? I don’t think it’s right for your dress. Maybe if you

hadn’t stuck to the clearance racks you’d have found something better than that trash you’re

wearing. And are those flowers? Lovely. Is it to try and replace the ones your non-existent date’s

never going to give you?

I take a perverse delight in watching the happiness fade from your eyes. The soft look

turning hard as you ripped the flowers off your hair. You storm off, but I doubt it’s the last time

you’ll be seeing me tonight.

And I was right; we did keep running into each other. Don’t act surprised, you did bring

me to the party with you. I hope you remember that much. And practically every five minutes,

you’d beckon to meet me in the corner, by the glass doors, asking me what people were looking

at you for.

Well, why wouldn’t they look? Don’t eyes naturally go to the peop le standing alone?



You seem to be having a hard time enjoying yourself. Is it because of me?

It took you long enough to come home after the party. Maybe you knew I’d be waiting

and you didn’t want to face me. Do you blame me, I wonder?

It’s not as if it’s my fault. You’re the one who started with all the questions.

You stumble into the room and I can feel your breath wafting over me, condensed drops

smelling strongly of alcohol.

Was the party that bad? Did I drive you to drink? Or is it that you’ ve truly started looking

at yourself since you started talking to me? It’s a miracle you haven’t noticed all of these before.

Or maybe you just never bothered looking. So tell me, what is it you see? No. Let me. I see

nothing and no one, a drunkard and a d ruggie with no hope and no future. Someone who’ll

never amount to anything, so why even try. Take a good long look, honey, because this is what

you’re going to see every day, every hour, every time you look into my eyes.

You raise your hand to stop me, to silence me.

Not yet, not when I have so much more to say.

You smash your fist into me and I break.

I break.

...into a thousand shards, with OUR face on each and every one.

...A thousand copies of our ugly faces.



Why so much hate?

Because tell me; who is it you see when you look at me?



Non-Fictionbecause the greatest oddity of all, is us



Masquerade

Dazzling masks and intricate costumes, moving and swirling in the mass that is

humanity. Elaborate steps with rapid counting, all of us striving to keep to the beat. Moving as

one unit, no one wishing to stand out or truly be seen. All of the movements are

choreographed, practiced unceasingly for hours on the end. Our smiles are bright, our laughter

tinkling; and yet everything is with its tinge of falseness. For in this glittering party, who truly

knows what lies behind each mask?

I used to believe that I preferred being an observer. Watching on the outside, as the

dancers lost themselves in the music. I was contented with staying on the sidelines, convinced

that everything I had was enough for me. I didn’t need the multiple, shifting partners or the

dizzying, parrying of steps. One or two people beside me were more than enough, for the only

thing that mattered was that they’d stay for the entirety of the party. And the perpetual

confrontation and evasion gestures were far too complicated for me to successfully imitate. I

wanted nothing to do with the people on the dance floor. But I too got caught up in the music. I

too, got lost in the dance.

Even when I was younger, participating in crowds never appealed to me. I wasn’t the

type of child that gravitated to where all the people were. I enjoyed being with my friends, but I

could do without them. I was never at loss for playmates, but neither did I actively try to seek

them out. All my memories are of just being with one or two people for a whole school year. I

wasn’t interested in expanding my horizons because I felt that it took too much of my time

away from my studies. I remember eating lunch with the same person everyday and never

growing tired of our conversations. It was like that ever since I entered grade school. But people

change. And in my case, I was the one who had to learn to cope.

She was the closest friend I ever had. It sounds cheesy, but it really was like we were

perfectly in synch. I could talk to her about everything and I was never afraid to show her the

parts of me I hid from other people. She knew about that time when I randomly hid little notes

f or the boy I liked to find. She’d smirk at me every time he’d turn to ask me if I saw who put it



among his things. She stayed through all my rants about my lessons, my teachers, everything

that was pissing me off. And I was with her as she moaned about her weight and cried over her

mom and dad sleeping in separate rooms. The dent in our couch could speak for how long our

phone conversations would last. It couldn’t recover from my staying in the same position as I

talked to her for hours.

But our friendship wasn’t perfect. I was jealous of her at times. She had the kind of

grades I would have killed for. And I envied how easily she understood Math. But I was secure

knowing that she envied me too, the way I could eat whatever I wanted without growing fat

and the way I had no trouble standing in front and speaking my mind. We knew each other’s

faults, I had the tendency to completely shut everyone out and she was a hell of a drama

queen, but it never bothered us enough to affect our friendship. I was confident about being

put in the “Pilot” section with her for Grade 6 and Grade 7, thinking we could be best friends

for two more years. But we both grew up. And the problem was that she did it faster than me.

I should have realized that even if I was satisfied with staying in my little bubble, it might

not have been the same for her. I didn’t fault her for making new friends; I just didn’t

understand why she had to leave me behind. Our conversations were dwindling and I found

myself eating lunch without her more and more often. I’d go home every night and wait for the

phone to ring as our couch slowly reverted into its original shape. I still remember the last of

our long phone conversations. I asked her if she was giving up on our friendship; if she wasn’t

going to be my friend anymore. And she replied, “I’m growing. And I can’t help but feel like

you’re weighing me down. I’m sorry, but I just don’t need you anymore .” It’s funny now, how

cruel children can be in their honesty, but I wasn’t laughing then. I hated her. I didn’t

understand how she could just throw away all the memories we had together in order to make

space for all the new ones she wanted with her new friends.

I wanted to make her feel exactly like how I was feeling when I put down the phone.

Instead of being left behind, I wanted to do the leaving. I remember not talking to her for

weeks, fully committed to destroying what was left of our relationship. And I kept telling myself

it was okay, because, hey, she gave up first. She’d still seek me out at times, to convince herself



she hadn’t made an enemy. My face would be a bland mask, smiling at the right times,

murmuring the right replies. I’d console her, put to rest her fears, all the while mentally

stabbing her whenever she turned away. I never sought her out myself; and instead started

hanging out with different people, trying to find myself another niche. And I somehow found

another group of friends that was entirely different from the one I convinced myself I was okay

with leaving behind.

They were different from my usual crowd. We’d stay in a group separate from our other

classmates. I thought I’d found myself another bubble to live in but I just didn’t feel

comfortable in my own skin. And so I tried to grow myself a new one, though nothing I came up

with was good enough. I wasn’t used to being friends with people who looked like them, the

ones with perfect skin and perfect teeth. They’d run their hands through their hair as it falls

effortlessly down their backs while I found myself struggling to pull my brush through my curls.

I dreaded going to the bathrooms with them, if only to avoid the ten minutes spent in front of

the mirror that’s usually followed by an impromptu photo op. The pictures would end up

posted in Multiply and I wished they’d just crop me out. I was the odd-one-out, the only one

with dark skin and unruly hair, with the circle-shaped glasses and an over-eager smile. And I

found myself wondering if I was the quintessential “ugly friend” in our barkada, you know, the

one you go around with to make yourself look even better than you already do. The power of

comparison.

I was tall and thin, gangly with limbs I had no idea what to do with. And for a nerd

whose favorite hang-out spot was the Literature section at the library, I didn’t h ave many

opportunities for self-improvement. I started with my clothes, tucking away money from my

allowance for brand names I never even took a second glance at before; for the kind of clothes

my friends would bring to the counter without even trying on. My parents were surprised with

my sudden interest in fashion considering my idea of dressing-up used to be confined to a pair

of jeans and a t-shirt. I’d miss lunches in order to save up for the gorgeous pair of pumps I saw

at Aldo or the perfect red dress on sale at Warehouse. There came a point when I’d end up

spending only a quarter of my allowance on food and the rest were reserved for the next big



Glorietta sale. I was convinced that if I went around in exceptional outfits, it’d make up for an

unexceptional face. I had so many costumes in my closet, I could get lost in the deceit.

That year was also the first time I decided to get my hair straightened. It started out as a

joke, with all of us in the group promising to get a rebond over Christmas break. Only three of

us ended up following through however. And after getting my hair done, it was like my whole

attitude changed. As if my new hair and new clothes made it okay to act as fake as the

Salvadore Ferragamo wallet I was trying to passing off as real. Strangely enough, my hair made

me feel like I finally belonged in their group. My skin may have still been darker but at least we

had some points of similarity. Even more so when they introduced me to make-up. I bought it

all, the foundation, the blush, the eyeliner. I’d wake up an hour earlier every morning just so I

could spend more time putting on lip gloss over the bathroom sink. I’d pout my lips and

practice my smile, perfecting the mask I’d be wearing for the rest of the day. I had so much

practice using the make-up on myself at home that posing in front of the mirror at school with

them started feeling natural for me. Soon enough, I was the one initiating the bathroom meet-

ups. I’d be so careful, making sure to never sweat or wipe my face lest the concealer fade and

they see what I really looked like. I’d read the latest fashion magazines and trend reports,

careful to never slip up and show that I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. And I

thought I was doing a fantastic job of fooling them all. But then boys started showing an

interest in joining our group, or more importantly, an interest in my friends.

They were loud and crass, yet my friends soaked up their attention. And so I found

myself craving it too. But they never even glanced in my direction. It seemed like all the effort I

put into changing my appearance still wasn’t good enough for them. And so I started on

adjusting my attitude. My mask and my costume just weren’t enough to hide the person

underneath. I learned to laugh at their bawdy jokes, even inserting a follow-up line to keep

them smiling. For really, what could be worse than an ugly prude? I let them copy off my papers

if only to have them grin at me in thanks. It became a contest wherein my only goal was their

approval. And yet they never gave it to me. My make-up was never thick enough or my skirts



short enough, I couldn’t understand why the mask I’d so carefully assembled wasn’t enough to

make them believe.

And as I was trying to prove myself worthy to my friends, my old one started calling me

up regularly again. It seemed like with my new circle, I once again became someone she

deemed worth knowing. I never really forgave her, though once again, I pretended I did. It was

too much of an adrenaline rush, finally having the scales tipped in my favour. Our roles were

reversed which was exactly what I wanted to happen. This time she was the one scrambling to

pick up the pieces while all I did was pick at the cracks. I relished telling her of the parties I’ve

been to, the kind whose invitations she’s only ever dreamed of getting. I boasted about my

friends and preened under her attention. The perfect mask I’ve constructed was seeping into

my skin thanks to all her gushing adoration. Things were never the same between us and never

again were we on equal footing. Our friendship had turned into a power struggle and all I cared

about was staying the victor and laughing at her as she kissed my feet.

My mask was perfectly in place and I couldn’t be happier.

It all changed though when I transferred into my last section. None of my old friends

were in it and I hated how all I worked for suddenly became worthless. I wasn’t used to being

judged on merit instead of reputation and physical appearance. But old habits were hard to

break, and I still found myself seeking out my old classmates. I was wary of my newly-formed

friendships, certain that my old ones were more concrete because I had to work for them. I

didn’t understand how they could accept me so easily in their circle without me exerting almost

any effort. When I’d go the bathrooms with them, they’d stare at me as I brought out my make-

up. And they asked me once, “Why do you need all that goop? You’re already pretty .” I stormed

out, certain they were poking fun. I wasn’t used to being able to go to practices or class

gatherings without dressing up or carefully fixing my hair. It took me a long time to trust them

but my mask was gradually fading away. The multitude of tiny cracks on it, gotten every time

they’ve simply been there, was chipping away piece by piece. They made me feel like I belonged

and I wanted to show the real me.



I gradually lost touch with my old friends, barely even saying hi to each other in the

corridors. Perhaps I wore out my welcome, considering they couldn’t copy off my assignments

because of our different teachers or because I’d rather spend time with my new friends than be

with them. But I found that it didn’t matter anymore, that they didn’t matter.

For the longest time I thought that I was winning, when it turns out all I’ve been doing is

losing myself and the qualities that actually make me a good friend. I learned to backstab and

call people names. I learned to laugh at the people outside of my group and make them feel

inferior. I learned to be a horrible fake excuse of a friend and I patted myself on the back for it. I

praised myself because I was able to completely change myself into another person. But

friendship isn’t a game of pretend. It’s not about hiding a part of myself to please someone

else. And the people who see me for exactly who I am, they’re the ones who deserve my

loyalty. The friendships that I had to work for were the ones that weren’t worth keeping, for if

they couldn’t appreciate me at my worst, why should they have me at my best?

Friendship isn’t some complicated dance with each party executing memorized steps.

It’s not about moving in time with the rest of the pack, but keeping to the steady beat of each

other’s feet. There is no battle, no thrust and parry, for friendship draws no blood. And so I

distance myself from the hypnotic melody on the dance floor, tearing away from my partner,

my figure being the sole disturbance in an otherwise uniform routine. I make my way back to

my original table, praying that the people I left behind would still be waiting.

As I sit down, a figure stops in front of me and holds out her hand. The lights make the

strands in her hair shimmer and the multitude of rings adorning her fingers glitter in greeting.

“Would you like to join the dance?” she asks.

No thank you. I think I’ll sit this one out.



Poetry for when the twisted musings of the mind break

free from self-restraint



Ars Poetica

A poem should be more than words rippling across water;

Vibrant with life, bubbling with emotion

As refreshing as the first few drops of spring rain

Lingering as dew in the morning sun

And as untamed as the fury of a gathering thunderstorm

Slashing the sky with violent stripes

A poem should be as clear as a tidal pool

Glimmering, sparkling

Sunlight reflecting off each angle of its shallow depths

And yet as mysterious as the azure ocean

Merely hinting at what lies beneath

A poem should be the crashing of the surf against the shore

Roaring with vengeance, feral with power

Screaming to be heard

As well as the gentle lapping of the waves

Wearing down a sandy coast with whispers hidden between the lines

A poem is one thing and another

Shifting and changing, never completely one form

Explicit, and yet, never fully understood

A poem is what you make it to be

Brimming with infinite possibilities



From a Country Girl to a City Boy

Misty mornings and rooster’s boast

Waves splashing on the sandy coast;

Verdant flora grows lush and green

Blossoms glowing with dewy sheen;

Let’s pick fruits along the cobbled way

And watch the sunrise each coming day;

Plan picnics on the soft spring grass

While waiting for the time to pass;

Let’s carve our names in birch or stone

In pen or plume, or sharpened bone;

Skip rocks across the bubbling brooks

While holding hands in hidden nooks;

Let’s count the stars and fireflies

Lighting up our midnight skies;

Lie down as the misty clouds blow past

Wonder at the spell the moon has cast;

Just play me love’s sweet serenade

And dance with me in fairy glades;

Underneath the constellations

Falling prey to night’s seduction;

Take part in all these simple pleasures

Delight in each of nature’s treasures;

Leave your city and stay with me

Where love reigns and fancy’s free;



A City Boy’s Reply to a Country Girl

written by: Jeks Espina

Misty mornings, they do not last

Work must be done when they have passed;

Verdant green flora must give way

When winter comes and days turn grey;

Though sunrise seems like such delight

It only is a short respite;

For when it’s done, when roosters call

The fields await, the ploughs must crawl;

To carve our names and hearts in stone

It would age and crack like tired bones;

To skip rocks across lakes and brooks

Would be a waste of time we took;

Our lives are short and time fleeting

Too quick to waste, naive feelings;

And for our sake, I must remain

A city boy, despite the pain;

To your request, I must decline

For life is hard and not sublime

And though I wish to see you too

Leave the city, I cannot do;



Limbo

If not, spring

as the wildflowers bloom, challenged to brilliance by the beauty of your eyes;

as the birds chirp, their songs no match for the sweetness of your serenade;

as the rain falls and marks all things with the scent of new beginnings;

If not, summer

when the light forms golden patterns on your sweat-slicked skin;

when the sand clings to the deep grooves of your naked back;

when the watermelon chillers leave their sheen on your dewy lips;

If not, autumn

as the palettes of crimson and ochre provide a breathtaking backdrop to your smile;

as the spiky leaves frame the length of your glistening locks;

as the cobblestone paths form willing instruments for the symphony of your steps;

If not, winter

when the snowball’s chill proves no match for the shiver in my heart;

when the snowman’s smile proves no substitute to the warmth of yours;

when my angels in the snow yearn too for the company of your silhouette;

If not,

Forever.



Dementia

the steady drip of the water faucet

lies unnoticed, as she gazes at the cracks

silent in her bathroom mirror, and it

makes her shudder to see faces staring back;

livid eyes glowing red, whispering to

each other, softly plotting her demise;

slyly creeping arms, pulling her to do

grievous harm when all her insecurities arise;

taunting voices, muffled screams, occupy

the various empty spaces in her mind;

while the vacant look on her face belies

intentions of seeking vengeance in kind;

all the faces in each shard grin with manic glee,

and with a blissful shout, she lets her demons free



Magnum Opus

He is the master and i am his muse

his inspiration, his creation,

my body is his canvas, touched by no one except him

roaming hands, checking, prying,

marking me as his, to remind me with every breath i take

He is the artist and i am his masterpiece

shading my body with his own special palette;

black, for his first caress,

purple, for the lingering of his touch,

and gold, for the anticipation of his next embrace,

and yet he shows his greatest works to no one,

made works of art exclusively for his eyes,

he hides them swathed in cheap wool and heavy cotton,

when they should be draped in silk for all the world to see

He is the sculptor and I am his clay

flawed, unformed, defective

until he burned me with the fires of his passion

and branded me with the proof of his love

and now,

I am perfect.



La Petite Mort

the pulsating lights caress my skin as

everything around me catches fire, yet

i stand alone, the burning in my eyes

blamed on too many dirty martinis instead of

a cell phone that’s never rung, the olive in my glass

swirling in perfect harmony with the beat

the creak of the stool beside me as a stranger

offers another chance at redemption,

another smile, another night, another saviour

the warmth of his touch as our bodies fuse together

on the floor, a prelude to the oldest dance of all

the smell of pine fresh and spilled soda as a

cabbie’s eyes spy on the couple in the backseat

writhing in abandon, sweat sticking to old leather,

buttons flying, destined to lie unnoticed and

unmissed in the darkness, victims to our haste

the bang of the door and the shattering of the picture frame

are ignored as he presses me against him, Baby , he

sighs, tongue dripping with honey as it leaves a glistening

trail down my throat, even as i wish only for his lips to



say my name, and my name alone, against mine

the creaking of the bedsprings punctuate the balmy evening as

our bodies strain towards fulfilment, gazing into his eyes,

hoping for something, anything, a glimmer that’ll show

i’m worth more than just one night, but his eyes remain closed,

blind to everything but the basest of physical connections,

and yet it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, because in that

moment, one blinding flash of light, the earth shatters and

we rise up in flames, bodies clinging to each other, grasping to

stay on the ground instead of kissing the spider cracks on the

ceiling, resplendent in their beauty, rejoicing in the glorious intimacy

of our night’s rendezvous as we lie cloaked in dirty sheets

i trace the drop of sweat gliding down his back with my

eyes, covers up to my chin, cigarette in hand, quivering hands

reaching out to touch him but he scoots only farther away

I’ll call you some time, Babe

The dim light of the corridor and my muted

footsteps on the worn carpet are the only

accompaniment to the lonely beating of my heart.



fin.

Documents

La Danse des Masques